Not Enough
by Airealataiel
Summary: Tag: All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1. Time is of the essence. Dean's POV. Character death.


**Title**: Not Enough

**Author**: Airealataiel

**Fandom**: Supernatural

**Characters**: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer

**Tags**/**Spoilers**: Season 2, All Hell Breaks Loose (Part 1)

**Word** **Count**: 4,044

**Warnings**: angst, character death

**Notes: **Normally I try not to just rewrite episodes in my own words, but this episode profoundly touched me and I felt like we just didn't get to see enough of the actual pain that Dean felt. As a fandom, we know how much he suffers even though he hides it, but I just really felt like I needed to put this in words. I cried writing it. Hopefully you'll find it true to character and also insightful.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the order in which I put the words.

- SPN - SPN - SPN - SPN -

Time is a fascinating subject, when you take a moment to think about it. Time is a manmade concept, a mere idea, which allows one to universally judge the way the world changes in the most miniscule increments. However, the perception of the passage of time is subject to each individual's own senses, in which case it completely loses all of its supposed universality. For example, when you doze between hitting the snooze button, five minutes go by faster than the blink of an eye, but when you're a skilled hunter on the trail those same five minutes may stretch out the length of several hours.

Dean Winchester particularly hated time. The whole concept of it completely infuriated him; it seemed to always be against him. Whenever he needed more of it, it felt as if the entire universe was flashing by at the speed of light, and when he just wished he could get something over with, time had the annoying tendency to turn her back on him and walk away so that he had the frustrating sense that he was going so slow he'd never reach his goal. And then sometimes, perhaps worst of all, time would speed up and slow down in such rapid and arbitrary spurts that he could barely keep the nausea from evolving into full-on physical illness.

This was one of those times.

Everything had been perfectly normal until the café-diner. Dean and Sam had spent most of the day on the road, the long miles accompanied by the Metallica-Boston-Zeppelin trio, the stretches of comfortable silence interspersed with brotherly banter, reminiscences of the "good old times," and speculations on their next hunt. Then they had stopped for a late-night meal and Dean, playing the big-brother-slash-tired-driver card, made Sam play delivery boy, the same as a million times before. But then it had all gone downhill faster than a toddler on a runaway bicycle.

The radio flickered, Dean looked down, and when he looked up again the entire world had turned upside down but left Dean right-side up. His watch told him that it had been 13 seconds, but the chilling lack of life behind the windows suggested that ages could've gone by in the time he'd been distracted. Ages that somehow fit within 13 seconds.

After that, it all became a discombobulated jumble. He leapt from the car and strode up to the ramshackle building, trying to laugh at himself for being such a paranoid fool, but the painfully powerful and uneven thumping of his heart made it rather difficult. Though he expected trouble, seeing the first body was a little bit like running headlong into a steel pole.

"Sam?" he called out warily, drawing his pistol. As he walked through the diner, noting the wreckage of bodies, each step brought him further from hope until he finally allowed himself to realize the truth of his brother's absence. Fear sank its teeth in then. He kept glancing at his watch as if to reassure himself, but the actual amount of time that passed never matched with how much he felt had gone by, so he tried to gauge the minutes by the rapid beating of his heart instead. But his senses were muddled, his legs moved like he stood waist deep in sludge. He recognized the feeling of disorientation and thought he might be sick. Whatever way he looked at it, Sam was in trouble.

After the relatively quick sweep of the diner and grounds and shouting himself hoarse with worry, Dean lost a large chunk of time. His mind was on overdrive, every single one of his organs functioned irregularly and out of sync, and somewhere along the line his brain seemed to have decided that he couldn't be bothered with minutia while he was on autopilot. The phone call to Bobby, of which he retained absolutely no recollection, and the drive from wherever he had been to wherever he ended up were less than a blur – they hadn't even registered on his personal timeline. They had become lost in a black hole and were never coming back.

Dean awoke from the mind-numbing blackness as he pulled off to the side of the road somewhere in the middle of the country. He was surrounded by fields of dead crops, and a dirty old blue pickup was pulling to the shoulder behind him. For a moment, he wondered at himself and how he had allowed his guard to drop so far that all of his senses had gone completely off radar, but the stocky camo-clad older man stepping out of the truck put Dean back at a relative level of ease. Finally, something he could trust in.

The somewhat good feelings that he had felt upon first seeing Bobby Singer quickly evaporated, however. Dean's body, heart, soul and mind thrummed rhythmically in the absence of his brother, so that his new internal clock ticked to the mantra of "Gotta find Sammy," and Bobby's lack of answers did nothing to speed the momentum. He found himself getting frustrated and lashing out without meaning to and couldn't even find it in himself to make excuses or apologize for his behavior despite the guilt he felt.

The call from Ash marked another dot on his timeline, and then all shit hit the fan. Driving to the roadhouse was the most agonizing experience Dean could think of. Mile after mile after mile flew by and nothing outside the car ever changed; it felt like a terrestrial version of the doldrums. If it weren't for the changing angle of the sun, he would have sworn that he was stuck in the same five minutes for hours.

Bobby was silent, not knowing how to respond to Dean's anxiety. Dean begged and pleaded silently, '_Let Sam be okay, let Sam be okay, let Sam be okay,' _faster and faster in his mind, as though he could make the earth rotate faster under his wheels through brain power alone. Simultaneously he knew that every minute that went by was another minute of danger for Sam, and he found himself wishing Sam would just freeze in time until Dean could catch up.

The utter devastation, fear, panic, and desolation in finding the roadhouse as nothing more than an ink-stain of smoldering char and rubble marked the beginning of Dean's descent into frenzy and bottomless darkness. After that, everything was a fog until suddenly it was night and he and Bobby were rolling up to the outskirts of a crumbling old ghost town called Cold Oak.

The next second it feels like a hunt, and as quickly as the blackness came, now Dean's senses snap back into real time. The effect is jarring and Dean is thankful for the muscle memory of gearing up which provides him enough time to recover from the shock and readjust to the setting. For a moment, everything almost feels normal. Bobby is with him, they have a goal in mind, and Dean can feel it all the way to the marrow of his bones that they're in the right place. He marches toward the town gate, hears the wind between the branches and the squelching of his and Bobby's footsteps, feels the soft ground give beneath his feet and the cold air bite his face. His heart throbs in his ears.

As the buildings start to take shape in the distance, he can't refrain himself from shouting desperately. "SAM!" Then, only moments later as he and Bobby round the corner onto the main street of the small town, he sees his brother, and time does the one nice thing that it will ever do for him and grants Dean Winchester one tiny little gift. Three gloriously long seconds in which Dean is given all the time in the world to bathe in the glory of his brother's form.

"Sam," Dean breathes. There are no words for the relief that floods through his body. His fingers tingle and the back of his knees feel weak, his heart skips and jumps in his rib cage, his face flushes, and he itches to run to Sam and wrap his arms around the younger man. The expression on Sam's face plainly mirrors Dean's feelings and is more beautiful than anything he has ever laid his eyes on. He privately vows that he will never take those eyes off his brother again. The "Dean" that falls out of Sam's mouth holds just as much feeling as his older brother's utterance, filled with ease and comfort and belief that everything will finally be alright. But that is all that time is willing to give, and then everything goes back to reality and there simply is never enough.

In the split-second that it takes for the brothers to catch up, it's already too late. Something moves behind Sam and Dean only has time to shout, "SAM LOOK OUT!" Before Sam even has a chance to turn around, before the expression on his face can barely perceive threat, the man behind him rushes up and pushes a dagger into Sam's back, jerking it up and severing the spinal cord. The squelching sound is sickening and rings through Dean's ears, bouncing off of the bare walls and through the empty street around them, magnifying exponentially. In retrospect, he doesn't think he will ever forget it.

"NOOOO!" Dean screams. His vision tunnels so that all he sees is Sam, and he feels like a runner who can't get off the starting block fast enough. Why won't his legs move? Sam groans and sinks to his knees in the mud, and Dean's legs won't obey him. He runs as fast as he can, and still it's not fast enough to catch his brother in his arms. He watches Sam drop and his face fill with pain even as he rushes forward.

Dean hits his knees in front of Sam, throwing aside his gun and flashlight. What use are they now? He can't even remember why he had them in the first place. Nothing seems more important than getting his little brother to look at him right now, stare him down with defiance and smirk about how it's all going to be okay and to stop his worrying like such a girl. Dean grabs his brother by the front of his shirt, causing his head to flop down to his chest. He looks at his little brother for a moment, trying to catch his gaze, but the fluttering eyelids don't lend themselves to focus, so he pulls his brother closer. "Sam," he says gruffly. Sam's head lolls to the left, then his body crumbles and goes limp. Dean reels forward with the full weight of his taller younger brother. He doesn't even notice, except that his gut clenches painfully. Something is seriously not good.

"No, Sam. _Sam_. Sam, hey," he mutters, going into protective mode. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he tries to convince himself that it's Sam who needs reassurance and if he only pretends everything is alright, his younger brother won't freak out.

"Hey, come here, come here. I'mma…Lemme look atchya," Dean adds, shifting Sam from his left shoulder to his right and pulling him securely into his arms. He wishes that the situation were different, thinks that it _should _be different. He should be pulling his brother into an embrace and celebrating the fact that he found him, not examining his injuries. But as he wraps himself around his brother and pats his back, his left hand hits something warm and wet. Alarm bells start clanging in his head and he swallows thickly, forcing himself to pry his eyes open. His arm still around his brother, he peels his hand back and glances down apprehensively. His palm is covered in blood; Sam's blood.

A sudden frost grips him as Dean's breath catches in his throat, heart stops, eyes widen in fear. '_Not good,'_ is the only thing he can think. As much as he wants to just hold his brother forever, to let the healing power of his grip alone bring Sam back to full health, he forces himself to push his brother back so that he can inspect his face, placing his right hand on the side of Sam's neck to support his weak head. "Hey, look. Look at me," he mumbles, "it's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, alright." He bobs his head, trying to catch Sam's aimlessly wandering gaze. Sam doesn't respond, and Dean doesn't know who he's reassuring anymore. His voice certainly betrays him, because there's no strength behind the words he utters like promises.

He swallows, pauses to take a good look at his brother's face. Sam's eyes are almost closed, his mouth hangs partially open, and Dean doesn't want to think about the red blooming on his brother's lips, because a mouth full of blood is a bad sign and he's just not ready to handle that level of gravity. Sam's head droops and his eyes roll to the left of Dean's gaze.

"Sammy?" He doesn't mean for it to come out so needy, pleading, but he doesn't think he has ever needed anything more than the way he needs his brother's attention in this moment. But Sam's eyes close. Dean, holding his brother by the shirtfront again, gives him one terse jerk. "Sam!" he barks, the fear and frustration leaking into his voice for a split second, which he instantly regrets.

Sam's head lolls back and forward a bit, eyes still closed, and doesn't respond.

Dean speaks softer now, apologetically, trying to get Sam to meet his eyes. "Hey, listen to me, we're gonna patch you up okay. You'll be good as new. Huh?" He wants to say he's sorry; sorry for making Sam go into the diner, sorry for not finding him soon enough, sorry for not beating the shit out of the kid before he could get to Sam, sorry for not having magical healing powers. He wants to say he's sorry that he let Sam get hurt, sorry that he let him get away, sorry that he wasn't a better brother. There are so many other things that he wants to apologize for too. Mostly, he wants more time. Every tiny second that goes by counts for something so much more and he can't help but feel like something important is slipping through his fingers.

Sam's head drops down and Dean takes his brother's face between his hands. "I'm gonna take care of you, I'm gonna take care of you. I gotcha," he promises. He can't stop the words from tumbling out now. It seems so incredibly imperative, as if something unthinkable will happen if he doesn't keep talking. "It's my job, right? Watch after my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"

Dean smiles painfully, trying to make it okay. _Willing_ for him to be okay. But he can't stop staring at the blood stain on his lips. He reaches up to brush Sam's face with his right hand, tenderly pushes his hair out of his eyes, caresses his cheek. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, is starting to give him a headache, but he has to smile. Has to make Sam see. Still, no response.

Slowly, a weight starts to sink inside Dean. "Sam?" he asks. He thinks, _'DO something.' _Thinks, _'Breathe. Blink. Grunt. Live.' _He can only think in monosyllables. He reaches his right hand back up to his brother's hairline, traces it down to cup his jaw. Why should he feel so small under his touch now?

"Sam?" This time it's an actual question, though what he's asking, he doesn't know. He brings his other hand up so that he's once again gripping his brother by both sides of the face. His voice trembles as the weight keeps sinking further in him. "Sam?" he repeats, bottom lip quivering. He pauses, stares, begs for any response at all. "SAMMY!" he shouts.

Sam's head dips forward one last time, then stops, chin to his chest with a heaviness that is much too final. Dean's eyes widen, searching every feature of his brother's face for something, but the weight has finally hit bottom and the realization of the truth hits him hard even though he tries to deny it.

" No," he whispers. "Nonononononono."

He pulls his brother back into his arms, Sam's limp head drooping onto his right shoulder. "Oh, God," he moans. Dean can feel the burn of tears coming to his eyes as he clutches to his brother with everything that he's worth. He reaches up to cradle his brother's head, his fingers winding through the long hair that he spent so much time complaining about. "Oh Go-" he chokes.

Dean frowns, gritting his teeth and trying to keep the tears at bay, the sobs from racking his body. He rocks back and forth on his heels, holding his brother in his arms, slumped against his chest. Rocks him because he has to keep moving, because it's how he has always comforted his little brother no matter what kind of hurt he was feeling, because it's how he keeps himself from going insane. It isn't enough. He grips his brother's jacket and crushes their bodies as close as he can get them as a few weak sobs attempt to break free. He needs to feel the contact, needs to feel the full mass of his brother, needs to pull him so close that they could share a life force. Dean breathes heavily for a long moment, wanting with his entire soul to reverse time. Finally, he cannot take it any longer.

" SAM!" he screams, then he buries his face into the crook of his brother's neck and lets the tears come. Wave upon wave crashes over him, and he's never known grief like this, not even when his dad died. This is a new level of pain that he has never felt in all of his long life of trauma and suffering. It starts with tears, and when he thinks he's just about done, another wave hits and he cries _harder_, and when it settles down again, a third wave breaks down on him and the tears turn in to sobs, which then become gut-wrenching moans. By the end his stomach muscles ache and his eyes are so puffy he can hardly see, his nose runs, his throat is raw as if he'd been yelling for hours, his hands shake, he thinks he might vomit or pass out, and he still can't stop the tears from running down his face, though silently now.

Dean is numb. He does not know how long has passed while he has sat in the mud clutching his lifeless brother. Bobby is the one who brings him back to some strange semblance of existence. Mainly because the comforting hand that he places on Dean's head and the gruff, "You need some help, son?" are the farthest things from comfort there could ever be. The warmth of Bobby's hand makes Sam feel suddenly freezing in comparison, and the sound of his voice throws Sam's eerie silence into a permanence that Dean cannot fathom.

Dean doesn't respond but Bobby gets the hint. He retrieves the gun that Dean had thrown away in his haste and retreats to the Impala to wait. Another moment, or several—Dean's not too sure—goes by while the older Winchester talks himself into moving. He makes it another task, another mantra, because if he doesn't he will simply sit there forever in the mud, cradling his baby brother until all the world gives up on him and forgets he exists. He purses his lips, rocks back on his heels once more, and heaves himself up with Sam in his arms.

In twenty three years, Dean has shouldered the burden of his younger brother's weight more times than he will ever be able to count, and still this time will stand out forever. For Sam, whether simply injured, belligerently drunk and physically hauling him down for all of his stumbling, stone cold unconscious, even pulling away with unruly anger, had never been as heavy as he is now in death.

Dean focuses on Sam as he walks. He swore he would never again take his eyes off of him, and now it's possibly the only promise that he can still keep. Each step, he thinks, '_Get Sammy to the car,' _and _'he's so young,' _and '_too young,' 'so pale,' 'so innocent,' 'so perfect,' _and mostly _'why him?' _and _'why now?'_

Bobby holds the back door of the car open while Dean maneuvers himself and his brother in. There is no question about who will be driving. Dean can't even tolerate the thought of leaving his Sammy in the back seat all alone.

The door clicks shut, the Impala rumbles beneath him, rocks crunch under the tires as they slowly roll away, and Dean Winchester's world shrinks to include only himself and the limp body he holds too tightly. Sam's entire upper half rests in Dean's lap and still his legs are bent and look cramped for space. First he thinks, '_Sam's gonna wake up so stiff,' _and he feels guilty, and then realization hits him again and the sob escapes his throat before he even felt it come. He hugs Sam closer to his chest and while the blood soaking from his brother's back into Dean's thigh doesn't bother him, the iciness of Sam's face as Dean rests their foreheads together shocks him.

Blood flow to the extremities goes first, Dean knows, but even though the truth is bouncing around in his brain, he can't actually seem to place the words "Sammy" and "death" in the same sentence. Still, he can't help but notice the blue tint of Sam's lips, nose, and ears.

Suddenly Dean feels frenzied panic. He can't let Sam go cold! He pushes his brother's flopping head so that this face is pressed into the hot crook of Dean's neck and shoulder. Frantically, he rubs his palms together and then takes Sam's hands between his own. His fingers are already freezing and beginning to get stiff.

"Sam," Dean chokes inaudibly. "Don't do this to me," he whispers into his brother's ear, which is frosty when his lips brush against it every now and then. Dean tries to ignore this and continues his litany of promises. "Come back. Come back to me. I'll make it better._ I'll_ be better! I won't make fun of you anymore. I'll stop calling you bitch. I'll stop cockblocking. I'll even let you drive the Impala. And we can get new music, anything you want and I promise not to complain. We can quit the life if you still want to. You can go back to school to be a lawyer and I'll get a real job. We could settle down…"

For a moment, Dean envisions these things. Imagines the two of them, alive, warm, happy, doing something normal and good. Together. No demons, no ghosts, no guns… okay, maybe guns.

"Please Sam. _Sammy,_" he begs. "I'll do anything. Please come back to me. Don't leave me alone. I can't do this without you. _Sam._"

But time, no matter what speed it decides to take, doesn't stop and doesn't go backward. It's a one way street, and all that means for Dean is that Sam keeps getting colder no matter how hard Dean tries to prevent it. So when the car stops at a run-down secluded shack and Dean has to transport Sam to the bed inside, he doesn't bother with a blanket. But he stares and stares, because the colorless, lifeless body of his little brother is so foreign to him that he almost cannot trust his own vision, thinking that maybe if he stares and waits long enough, Sam will jump up and shout "Gotcha!" or else that he might wake up and find it was all a very vivid nightmare.

Neither of these things happen, and Dean is forced to continue drowning in the image of his pale brother, too young to die.

"I can fix this, Sam," he whispers. "I'm going to fix this, if it's the last thing I do."

- Fin -

**Note: **Thank you SO MUCH for reading. Please feel free to leave any comments! (Whether you liked or hated it, constructive criticism, etc.) Also, yes I realize that I changed tenses halfway through the piece. I did that purposefully, to make the beginning seem to have already happened and the ending to be a crash landing in the present and make the feelings more visceral. I hope it worked (let me know).


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